


reGuardless

by raisesomehale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (and eventual fluff), Angst, Bodyguard Derek, Clubbing, M/M, President Sheriff Stilinski, President's Kid Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisesomehale/pseuds/raisesomehale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The president had been to the point when he explained to Derek the rules of the job.</p><p>Stiles was in the room while these rules were recited: <i>Never take your eyes off of him in public. That’s how he liked to dodge his last bodyguards. No more than an arm's length apart. He’s more slippery than you’d think. Escort him to and from appearances. Intervene in any situation that might tarnish the Stilinski image</i>...</p><p>The list went on and on. As did the games of chicken Stiles initiated to test Derek with these rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reGuardless

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a prompt fill. That's how this usually works.
> 
> Derek is p much a poster boy for angst, 3k of his inner monologue of Manpain and Sexual Frustration shouldn't be a surprise to anyone. 
> 
> Title is my sad attempt at humor.

When Derek first steps into the club and takes in the sheer mass of bodies - a live, thumping wave - a flower of apprehension blossoms in his chest.

Not because he’s an alien to this scene; in fact he knows it all too well. Is well accustomed to the delicate system of it all; the unspoken rules that can’t be told, but only learned. And hell, did he ever learn. Observing from behind the screen he set in place to detach himself from it all. Detach himself from the tempting, unprofessional allure that seized him whole every time Stiles slid onto the dance floor.

Derek had to watch. Had to take part in whatever game Stiles felt like playing those nights. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t look away, no, it was worse than that. It was that he couldn’t.

The president had been to the point when he explained to Derek the rules of the job.

Stiles was in the room while these rules were recited: _Never take your eyes off of him in public. That’s how he liked to dodge his last bodyguards. No more than an arm's length apart. He’s more slippery than you’d think. Escort him to and from appearances. Intervene in any situation that might tarnish the Stilinski image_...

The list went on and on. As did the games of chicken Stiles initiated to test Derek with these rules.

Many nights, this dance floor transformed into Derek’s own, special kind of hell.

Sometimes, Stiles wouldn’t break eye-contact with him all night. Dancing with any number of bodies that remained faceless the longer his eyes bore into Derek’s. Pointedly shifting his narrow hips, mouth dropped down, making Derek ache. Forcing him to hold his stance - the farthest away he was allowed, a distance that felt measured in breaths when sliding in against Stiles was where he was obviously welcome.

Sometimes Stiles wouldn’t look at him at all. Made the invitation a pointed sway of limbs. Knowing Derek is watching. Knowing what he’s seeing and grinding harder, exaggerated expressions of pleasure all for Derek, only for Derek.

When they met, Derek looked at Stiles and saw a past of awkward limbs, too-big-hands and ears. Can see the evidence of it sometimes, when they’re walking together or when Stiles gesticulates broadly over an exciting topic. In the way he snorts first before laughing at some joke Derek’s made, how he sometimes hesitates with movements like he’s still waiting to compensate for any awkwardness.

But when he dances, here on the floor, laid open and thriving on the energy, he’s in control. He’s graceful. He’s all consuming.

So, no. Stepping back into the club atmosphere isn’t the reason why Derek’s fists clench and unclench. Isn’t the reason he begins to scan the crowd with a tight chest.

It’s because, with nothing but black lights and an occasional, multicolored spotlight flickering over the frenetic charge of bodies, finding Stiles seems like an unrealistic task.

So of course, Derek’s eyes hone in on him near instantly.

It’s the slow, tuned gyrating of Stiles’ body so unique to _him_ that draws Derek’s eyes like he’s the only person here with any color.

Stiles is dancing in between an enchanting pair of clubbers. The woman in front of him is dark and beautiful, with a shock of long and curly hair. She has her arms strewn across Stiles’ broad shoulders, palms coming to rest on the neck of the man plastered to Stiles’ back in a way that suggests the two strangers are a couple.

They look to be enjoying date night, to say the least, and their special guest doesn’t seem to have any objections either: Stiles moves between the two of them like he was born to this place; the thump of the music so loud Derek feels it resonate in his heartbeat.

While Stiles’ hands are preoccupied with leading the hips of the woman into a sort of sway against him, the man leads Stiles into a close, hard grind. Stiles leans back only far enough that the man can have a taste of him; a carefully maneuvered tease Derek has seen executed plenty of times. Stiles is devastatingly captivating when he’s like this.

Unsurprisingly, it works. The man pushes closer, hand like a vise around Stiles’ middle as a pair of white, sharp teeth skate the shell of Stiles’ ear.

Stiles’ pretty lips go slack and his eyes flutter shut, then he’s disengaging enough to say something to the pair that looks a whole lot like a proposition. In a lust-filled daze, the three of them start to move towards the back rooms.

Derek’s halfway across the dance floor before he even realizes he’s moved. He forcefully unclenches his teeth as he pushes through the crowd.

Not long ago, he’d be stepping in to stop the spontaneous rendezvous because it was his _job_. Intervening before the President’s son got himself into a situation that would make for prime time gossip mag material.

The memory of anger and hurt on Stiles’ face flashing through Derek’s mind is the only reminder he needs that that _isn’t_ his job anymore.

_“- how fucking stupid of me that I keep forgetting all I am is a fucking job to you!”_

His footsteps falter as if he’d tripped, knocking him against a tan woman dressed in orange. He mumbles an apology, distracted with shaking away the guilt that had brought him here in the first place.

The fighting wasn’t new. Ever since Derek was signed on to be Stiles’ personal bodyguard, they had fought - bantered, bickered. No. It was the reason for the fight that was different, the weight of the argument making Derek feel out of control. Vulnerable. Young.

It was a mistake.

He knew it the moment after it was over - _Derek’s hands were there. Finally touching, finally slipping beneath Stiles’ shirt and starring against his smooth, bare back. Anticipatory sparks shot off down his spine, tangling hot and heavy low in his stomach as their chests collided. A shaky, frantic noise gasped through Stiles' lips. His tongue sliding along Derek’s, his groan reverberating between them moments before Derek's back hit a wall_ -

Derek squeezes his eyes shut to stop the onslaught of emotions the memory sends trickling down his spine. Guilt. Arousal. _Longing_.

It’s been a week, and he still doesn’t know how he could have acted so recklessly, without a single thought to what doing that would mean for his and Stiles’ relationship.

It _shouldn’t_ have happened, is what it came down to.

Not like that, at least.

It was wildly unprofessional, and so, so selfish. But then, that was the best word he had to describe this… _thing_ between him and Stiles.

Selfish.

Selfish to encourage the flirting, to try and convince himself nothing would come out of it, that he didn’t need to put an end to it. Selfish to indulge in the fantasies  - _plush lips, long, sinewy forearms, eyes too bright and skin that would be so smooth under his tongue._ Selfish to think the white-hot tension that wound through him any time they shared the same space wouldn’t amount to exactly what ended up happening.

Selfish to thrive on the way Stiles made him feel when he made him laugh, smiled at him, sent him fond looks.

And Stiles… Stiles hadn’t been very happy when he tried to explain that to him afterwards.

Eventually, Derek was able to track Stiles to a shitty frat party on one of the trashier sides of town. He was with Scott. Finding that out made Derek feel relieved for all of two seconds. The third second was when Stiles’ eyes met his - glazed from alcohol, but still deeply, painfully sharp - and Derek knew: he was going to lose him.

 _“How much have you had?”_ A pointless question. Still he continued: _“You shouldn’t be here, your dad is getting worried -”_ but Stiles had thrown himself out of Derek’s grasp, knocking his hands away in his drunken outburst.

_“Ah! Of course! Wouldn’t want to worry daddy President!”_

_“Stiles-”_

_“How fucking stupid of me that I keep forgetting all I am is a fucking job to you!”_

_“That’s not -”_ but that wasn’t why Derek came. What was the point of telling Stiles he was everything, when he made a vow to his father to keep him safe from things that could hurt him?

 _“You need to come home, I’ll drive you -”_ but it didn’t matter. Stiles had stopped listening.

He made that clear with a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. _“You lost the right to tell me what to do the moment you put your dick in my ass.”_

Getting fired was less than he expected as punishment.

Stiles being the one to fire him is the reason he’s at this club in the first place.

He finds Stiles and the couple once more, farther away now and getting closer to the back rooms.

Derek picks up his pace, not taking his eyes off the hair at the back of Stiles’ head - _Derek’s fingers slip into Stiles’ hair, wild strands as soft as Derek had imagined. His grip tightens, pulling just hard enough that Stiles’ head comes back to rest on Derek’s shoulder. Stiles’ guttural moan expresses both of their gratitude with the new position. Derek shifts in deeper, tighter, the heat of Stiles overwhelming as he presses enthusiastically back into Derek’s lap_ \-  A hard hand thwacks Derek square on the chest, bringing him to a stop.

He looks down at it with annoyance and follows the meaty hand up to a hard, unfriendly face.

“No one’s allowed in the back rooms,” the man says loudly to be heard over the music.

Derek lifts an eyebrow, pointedly looking to where Stiles and the couple are slipping behind the divider that separates the clubs and the backrooms.

“No one but Mr. Stilinski and his guests,” he elaborates.

Just like that, it clicks. _This cinder block must be Stiles’ new bodyguard_. Derek tracks an unimpressed gaze down the man’s front. What sort of asshole would aid the 19 year old President’s son in getting laid?

“My bad,” Derek says automatically. He presses his lips into a sad excuse of a smile, and takes a step away. The bodyguard harumphs and crosses his arms back over his chest, turning his gaze back out onto the crowd.

Shooting past him is so easy, Derek has half a mind to call up the President and ask him what the hell he was thinking by hiring this man in the first place.

“Hey!” the bodyguard shouts, reaching out to grab Derek, but misses him. Derek makes it to the door he saw Stiles and the couple walk into and bursts through it.

They’re all undressing on the bed, Stiles at the center of the charade.

“What the fuck -” the woman exclaims, reaching for her blouse as the man tries to shield her with his entire body. It’s a comical display, and the topper on the cake is when Stiles glances over them both with a curious, and completely unashamed expression. It hardens when he sees Derek in the doorway.

Breathing heavily, the other bodyguard finally reaches the door and seizes Derek by the shirt. “Sorry Mr. Stilinski, he slipped past -”

“I wouldn’t touch his shirt, if I were you,” Stiles intones from the bed. The bodyguard looks up at Derek, taking in his hard expression before slowly letting go of his shirt.

He clears his throat and looks back into the room, making an uncomfortable, sour expression. With admirable professionalism, he says, “Want me to escort him out, sir?”

Derek looks sidelong at Stiles, and raises an eyebrow. Stiles huffs and pushes his tongue against his cheek as they stare at one another.

The couple finish getting re-dressed and slip through the doorway past Derek, making Stiles sigh.

Something twinkles in his eyes, a glint of mischief and anger. “You always did know how to chase away all the fun.”

“Only the type that could get you in trouble,” Derek says, always playing along.

Stiles is sprawled on the bed, and everything in Derek wants to crawl forward, make a place for himself in between Stiles’ spread thighs.

Stiles smirks. It says something about Derek, he thinks, that he can tell the expression is bitter.

“There’s no other kind,” Stiles says.

Derek couldn’t look away from the world of fire brimming in Stiles’ eyes even if he tried.

For all that Stiles puts up a convincing front, Derek knows who he is underneath all the false bravado and self-deprecating tendencies.

He knows that Stiles can never watch an Allstate commercial without saying “Are you in good hands?” along with the guy. He knows how he likes his toast - with butter and fresh avocado slices topped with salt and pepper - and that if Derek is the one making it, Stiles will try almost any food you can think of. He knows that he prefers green apples to red. He knows that he scored an 1800 on his SATs, and that he tries hard to make his dad proud. He knows he’s a good person, despite all his misendeavours.

And Derek knows that he’ll never be able to go back to the way it was before he knew the noises Stiles made while he’s being touched, the strength of his embrace, the way he snuffles just slightly when he’s waking up in the morning.

And maybe that had been why Derek said this could never happen. If they can’t go back, then all they can do is plunge forward into the endless possibilities of what can be.

And fuck, if that isn’t terrifying.

“Uh,” the other bodyguard offers, pulling Derek out of his reverie.

“It’s alright, Kevin,” their eye-contact breaks, and Stiles moves to the edge of the bed. “Mr. Hale is an old friend.”

That’s apparently all the dismissal Kevin needs, and he quickly heads back out to guard the opening to the backrooms.

Quiet resumes in the space left between them.

As more and more moments pass, it begins to feel like a physical thing: expectant, waiting.

“Does your dad know that your new bodyguard is an idiot?”

Stiles pauses in slipping his shirt back on, eyebrow lifting. They both know it’s a lame attempt at casual conversation.

“He follows the rules.”

Derek frowns. “Even the unspoken ones?”

But maybe not so unspoken anymore. Maybe when he finds out about Derek, Papa Stilinski will add another rule for the body guards he hires: Don’t sleep with the President’s son.

Stiles smirks and goes to tie his shoelaces. “My dad had a hard time finding a new bodyguard for me. He liked you. Couldn’t figure out why the hell such a fine bodyguard would quit ten months into the job.”

Why? Because the person Derek was meant to be guarding was the one who wanted him gone. Because Stiles didn’t have the authority to fire him but it felt a hell of a lot like it when Derek turned in his resignation. Because a “fine bodyguard” doesn’t steal away into the memories of places he’s kissed his client's body while on duty.

Because the President doesn’t know.

Stiles has finished tying his shoes. He turns to look at Derek expectantly. And though he’s fully dressed, Derek feels more vulnerable now than before. Stiles has a way of doing that to people, making them uncomfortable when they have his full attention.

Maybe it’s the intensity of him. How hard it is to impress him. How growing up in the constant eye of the public has morphed him into this untouchable thing, unbreakable. An icon for the youth of the nation.

Stiles is no rockstar, but Derek finally watching his favorite band on stage - the realization that they’re _real_ \- was a similar sensation to the first time he shook Stiles’ hand.

Stilinski has been president for 7 consecutive years, and during that entire time Derek watched along with every other American as his son grew up.

It only took about a week on the job for Derek to understand the person he watched on tv all those years and the real person behind the screen are two entirely different people.

Derek doesn’t feel uncomfortable to have Stiles’ full attention. Derek isn’t intimidated by him. No, Derek feels vulnerable for a whole other myriad of reasons.

Having Stiles’ eyes on him reminds him of the phantom touches that still linger. Remind him that, yes, this boy is intense, but maybe only in the way he can look at you like stars are being born behind your eyes.

But that’s not what Derek see’s now.

He see’s a hard, distant Stiles; a defense that Derek’s never had directed at him. It’s enough to make anyone feel exposed.

Stiles breaks the silence. “You know, I used to joke about you being emotionally mute, but seeing that in action isn’t as amusing as I thought it’d be.”

Derek hates to prove him right, but like always, he does by not being able to utter a word. All he can do is stare. And stare.

Stiles sighs, a pebble of his resolve tumbling down the wall. “Why are you here, Derek.”

Miraculously, Derek finds words. “We need to talk.”

“We’ve talked.”

Derek’s stare hardens into a glare. “Stiles.”

“You can’t make me do anything anymore,” Stiles hisses.

Derek’s eyes shut.

_“You lost the right to tell me what to do the moment you put your dick in my ass.”_

He opens them.

“Do it because you want to, then,” he says.

Stiles is fury and indignation condensed into a red hot coal, yet his tone of voice comes out icy cold: “I don’t.”

Derek says, “You do."

“And you know me so well?”

“More than you’d think.”

“So not very much at all.”

“Stiles.”

“I’m not gonna sit here through another explanation on why you don’t want me," Stiles shouts, arms gesturing violently, "I’m not gonna _do_ that again, Derek!” 

“That’s what you think,” Derek says slowly, “That I don’t want you.”

Stiles is looking at the floor.

Derek can feel a mirthless laugh work up from inside him. “Which part wasn’t clear enough for you?” A step forward. “How I couldn’t wait to come to work everyday? How I got excited whenever you were in the room? Was it not clear that night?”

That makes Stiles meet his gaze. “We fucked, Derek. That doesn’t mean anything.”

If Derek had any doubt about them before, it shatters with the pain of that statement.

Doesn’t mean anything? Stiles has always been a good liar.

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t.”

Stiles jaw twitches stubbornly, but his eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night.

“I’ve done more with perfect strangers.”

The words fan out against Derek’s lips. They’re so close. How could Derek not have realize how close they’re standing?

He shakes his head. “Not that,” he whispers, like a promise, like m an unarguable truth.

His eyes fall to Stiles’ throat as he swallows. “Not what?”

Another step. 

“How I kissed you,” says Derek. "How you shook against the sheets. You can’t moan a perfect stranger’s name.”

The tops of Stiles' cheeks are dusted a deep red, but Derek can’t tell if it’s from anger or… something else.

“You can’t know a perfect stranger’s favorite bench in the whole city. Or how they’re not a morning person, but love to watch the sun rise. You don’t know what jokes can make a perfect stranger laugh hard enough to cry. You can’t know how damaged someone is if you don’t know them, and still decide to love them.”

Stiles shifts his weight between his feet, arms crossed over his chest like they might protect him. He won’t meet Derek’s eyes, but he doesn’t move away either.

“Why now?” Stiles asks at length.

“You had to know," Derek says. “I couldn’t take another day knowing I hurt you without explaining myself… better.”

Stiles smiles, a shy, small thing that squeezes Derek’s chest. “Anything is better than ‘you can’t screw around with your bodyguard’.”

Derek blows out a groan, forehead leaning forward to rest against Stiles’. “Emotionally constipated is more accurate than mute,” he grumbles, apologetic.

The corners of Stiles’ mouth twitch, before he’s cautiously bringing his hands up to settle against either side of Derek’s shoulder and neck. He feels his eyes fall shut, heart rearing forward, senses soaking up the heat and spice of Stiles.

“You’re not my bodyguard anymore,” he murmurs softly.

Derek lifts his hands to frame Stiles’. With effort, he opens his eyes and pulls away enough to look into warm amber eyes.

“Your dad is still the president, though.”

“I told you,” Stiles closes the last of the distance between them, “He likes you,” and kisses Derek.

 

~fin.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](http://raisesomehale.tumblr.com)


End file.
